110 THE PRINCIPLES OF BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

-or

Shepherd (standing up). And it's on principles like these -boldly and unblushingly avoo'd here-in Mr Awmrose's paper-parlour, at the conclusion o' the sixth brodd, on the evening o' Monday the 22d o' September, Anno Dominie aughteen hunder and twunty-aught, within twa hours o' midnicht-that you, sir, have been yeditin a Maggăsin that has gone out to the uttermost corners o' the yerth, wherever civilisation or uncivilisation is known, deludin and distrackin men and women folk, till it's impossible for them to ken their right hand frae their left-or whether they're standin on their heels or their heads or what byeuk ought to be perused, and what byeuk puttin intil the bottom o' pie-dishes, and trunks or what awthor hissed, or what awthor hurraa'dwhat's flummery and what's philosophy-or what's rant and what's religion-or what's monopoly and what's free treddor wha's poets or wha's but Pats-or whether it's best to be drunk, or whether it's best to be sober a' hours o' the day and nicht or if there should be rich church establishments as in England, or poor kirk ones as in Scotland-or whether the Bishop o' Canterbury, wi' twunty thousan' a-year, is mair like a primitive Christian than the Minister o' Kirkintulloch wi’ twa hunder and fifty-or if folk should aye be readin sermons or fishin for sawmon-or if it's best to marry or best to burn -or if the national debt hangs like a millstone round the neck o' the kintra or like a chain o' blae-berries-or if the Millennium be really close at haun-or the present Solar System be calculated to last to a' eternity—or whether the people should be edicated up to the highest pitch o' perfection, or preferably to be all like trotters through the Bog o' Allen-or whether the Government should subsideeze foreign powers, or spend a' its siller on oursels-or whether the Blacks and the Catholics should be emancipawted or no afore the demolition o' Priests and Obis,—or whether-God forgie us baith for the hypothesis-man has a mortal or an immortal sowl-be a Phoenix-or an Eister!

North. Precisely so, James. You have drawn my real character to a hair—and the character, too, of the baleful work over which I have the honour and happiness to preside.

Shepherd. I canna sit here ony langer, and hear a' things, visible and invisible, turned tapsy-turvy and tapsalteerieI'm aff-I'm aff-ower to the Auld Toon, to tak toddy wi' Christians, and no wi' an Atheist, that would involve the

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warld in even-doun Pyrrhonism-and disorder, if he could, the verra coorses o' the seven Planets, and set the central Sun adrift through the sky. Gude-nicht to ye, sir-gude-nichtYe are the maist dangerous o' a' reprobates-for your private conduct and character is that o' an angel, but your public that o' a fiend; and the honey o' your domestic practice can be nae antidote to the pushion o' your foreign principles. I'm aff-I'm aff.

(Enter MR AMBROSE with a Howtowdie, and KING PEPIN with Potatoes and Ham.)

Shepherd (in continuation). What brought ye intil the room the noo, Mr Awmrose, wi' a temptation sic as that—nae flesh and bluid can resist? Awa back to the kitchen wi' the savoury sacrifice or clash doun the Towdie afore the Bagman in the wee closet-room, ayont the wainscot. What'n a bonny, brown, basted, buttery, iley, and dreepin breast o' a roasted Earock! O' a' the smells I ever fan, that is the maist insupportably seducin to the palate. It has gien me the waterbrash. Weel, weel, Mr North, since you insist on't, we'll resume the argument after supper.

North. Good-night, James.-Ambrose, deposit the Towdie, and show Mr Hogg down stairs. Lord bless you, James— good-night.

Shepherd (resuming his seat). Dinna say anither word, sir. Nae farther apology. I forgie you. Ye wasna serious. Come, be cheerfu'—I'm sune pacified. Oman, but ye cut up a fool1 wi' incredible dexterity! There-a leg and a wing to yoursel -and a leg and a wing to me- -then to you the breast-for I ken ye like the breast-and to me the back-and I dinna dislike the back, and then, How-towdie! "Farewell! a long farewell to all thy fatness." O, sir! but the taties are gran' the year! How ony Christian creature can prefer waxies to mealies, I never could conjecture. Anither spoonfu' or twa o' the gravy. Haud-haud-what a deluge!

North. This, I trust, my dear Shepherd, will be a good season for the poor.

Shepherd. Nae fear o' that, sir. Has she ony eggs? But I forgot the hens are no layin the noo; they're mootin.2 Faith, considering ye didna eat mony o' the eisters, your appeteet's no amiss, sir. Pray, sir, will ye tell me gin there 2 Mootin-moulting.

1 Fool-fowl.

be ony difference atween this new-fangled oriental disease, they ca' the Cholera, and the gude auld-fashion'd Scottish complent, the colic?

North. Mr Ambrose, give Mr Hogg some bread.

Shepherd. Ye needna fash, Mr Awmrose. I tak bread at breakfast, and the afternoons, but never either at denner or sooper-but I'm thinkin a bottle a-piece o' Berwick's or Giles' strong yill 'ill taste geyan weel after the porter. Tak tent, in drawin the cork, that the yill doesna spoot up to the ceilin. Bottled yill's aye up in the stirrups. The moment you pu' out the cork, in wi' your thoomb-and then decant baith bottles into the dolphin.

North. Above an average crop, I suppose, James.
Shepherd. Do you contribute to it, sir?

North. To what?

sure.

Shepherd. Mr Blackwood's New Agricultural Journal, to be There's a gran' openin the noo for sic a wark—and he's gotten a capital Editor. The subject is endless as the earth itsel and its productions.

North. I am a Monogamist.

Shepherd. And what's that-may I ask?

North. A man with one wife. Her name is-Maga.1 Shepherd. Ay, ye do richt in stickin till her. Were the ane o' ye to die, the tither wad sune follow. You are lovely in your lives, and in your deaths you will not be divided.

North. She sometimes has her sulks and her tantrums; but, in spite of them all, our wedded life has been all one honey

moon.

Shepherd. And then what a breedy body! A new birth every month-and sometimes twuns. Is she never to hae

dune ?

North. Dropping all figure or metaphor,-What do you think of Maga, the Matron?

Shepherd. She shud hae mair leeteratur-mair creetishism -mair accounts o' books o' voyages and travels-mair owerhaulin o' the press-mair philosophic estimates o' the genius o' the age, in Poetry, Eloquence, Paintin, Music, the Playhouse, and the rest o' the Fine Arts-mair topography and antiquities-aiblins, mair divinity;-and I hear folk that canna read Latin and Greek cryin out for the Classics, as they 1 Blackwood's Magazine.

THEOCRITUS, BURNS, RAMSAY, CUNNINGHAM, HOGG, 113

ca' them,-Popular Essays on the Classics, from Homer down to modern Romaics inclusive-and I can weel believe that the Greeks and Romans were gran' writers, for they were gran' fechters, and the twa aye gang thegither-the Lyre and the Lance, the Pen and the Swurd. Noo, tell me, sir, and tell me truly, was Theocrates really as gude a pastoral poet as me, or Robert Burns, or Allan Ramsay, or Allan Cunningham? North. He was, James, your equal in truth, simplicity, nature; more than your equal in an occasional rustic grace without a name, superior far in the power and magic of a language light as air, dense as clouds, cheerful as the dædal earth, magnificent as the much-and-many-sounding sea;— but he was, in variety of feelings and fancies, in depth and force of passion, in creation of character, in profusion of imagery, in invention of incident, far inferior to YOU GLORIOUS FOUR.1 He was indeed.

Shepherd. I'm glad to hear that, sir,-for the honour o' auld Scotland. She too, then, is an Arcawdia.

North. Let Glencorse Burn, murmuring from Habbie's Howe through Compensation Pond, down into the Esk, and then to the sea,-let the Ayr and Doune, cheering Coila with immortal music, let the dewy, no more the dowie holms of Yarrow, let the Nith, from Closeburn to Criffel, attest the truth-let the

Shepherd. O man! but the inside o' the back is sappysappy. What wi' your sauce and its ain gravy, this is the maist delicious Towdie that ever foraged afore the fanners. Noo for the yill. I fancy there's nae sin in dichtin ane's gab wi' the tablecloth,-for I've forgotten my pocket-hankerchief in my big-coat.

North. Is it not singular, James, that, though we two have each our own peculiar and characteristic style of eating, we have finished equal quantities in equal times?

Shepherd. I was dune lang afore you, sir—and no to hurry

1 The title of Allan Ramsay to rank as one of any "glorious" four may well be doubted. His nature was decidedly prosaic, if not essentially vulgar.

2 Habbie's Howe, among the Pentland Hills near Edinburgh, has obtained celebrity as the scene of Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd; but localities and traditions are in favour of Newhall, about five miles distant, on the North Esk. Burns glorified the Ayr and Doune. The holms of Yarrow were the birthplace of the muse of Hogg; and the flowings of the Nith found an echo in the songs of Cunningham.

VOL. II.

H

you, have been sookin awa, for ten minutes, in amang the trellis-wark o' the spine, lang after the banes o' the back were as dry as horn.

North. And I, for a quarter of an hour, have been dallying with the merrythought.

Shepherd. I aye kent, though we sometimes seem to differ in opinion, that we are congenial speerits. For gudesake, dinna drain the dolphin!

North. A mixture of Giles's and Berwick · nectar worthy an ambrosial feast!

Shepherd. It gars my een water, and my lugs crack. Noo for the toasted cheese.

(Enter TAFFY with two Welsh rabbits, and exit.) Shepherd (looking after him). What droich' o' a new cretur's that?

North. A Welshman. Desirous of seeing the world, he worked his passage from Penrhyn to Liverpool, on board a slater thence played the part of shoeblack in a steamer to Greenock and Glasgow-from Port-Dundas in the West country to Port-Hopetoun in the East, he ballad-sang himself in an unknown tongue by one of the canal coal-boats-and Mr Ambrose, who has a fine natural coup d'œil, picked him up one morning in the Vegetable Market, munching a carrot, without hat, shoes, or stockings-but a lively, active, and intelligent-looking lad as you can see-and in less than a month he was the best waiter in Edinburgh.

Shepherd. What's the name o' the cretur?

North. On account of a slight limp in his left leg, which promotes rather than impedes his activity, we call him- Sir David Gam.

Shepherd. I hae some thochts o' keepin a flunkeyNorth. Don't, James. A lassie's far better in every respect. Shepherd. But then, sir, a flunkey in the Forest livery wad look sae genteel and fashionable

North. What is the Forest livery?

Shepherd. Bricht bottle-green, sir, lined and turned up at the tails, lappelles, cuffs, and collar, wi' oker, barred on the breast, when the single-breasted coat's buttoned, wi' zigzag stripes o' twisted gold-lace—and the buttons o' yellow brass, few in number, but about as big's a tea-cup cheena saucer. That's the Forest livery, sir.

1 Droich-dwarf.